


love is a room, that's what is it

by shokubeni



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, Mother-Son Relationship, Mrs Zabini is a goddess, Other, some theodore nott/blaise zabini if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-07
Updated: 2017-09-07
Packaged: 2018-12-24 23:58:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12023829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shokubeni/pseuds/shokubeni
Summary: from all the things that blaise wished people could understand was the immeasurable love her mother had for his father, and that her mother had for him, and all the strength she displayed after his absence. and her strategies of surviving, too.





	love is a room, that's what is it

**Author's Note:**

> i always wanted to write a blaise zabini/mrs. zabini character study because i am just obsessed with mrs.zabini as a character and i am sure she would have been this badass mum to blaise.  
> i tried something different with the writing and this might suck.
> 
> any kind of comment is super appreciated!

**1980.**  
blaise zabini was born during a rainy and humid day in the middle of november, his cries echoing through the zabini manor in the south east of london. his father was a ministry employee of the department of mysteries, and his mother was this beautiful and charming witch who had lived some of her life in a small town in the island of sicily, in italy.

 

 **1984.**  
he knew, since the moment he had enough control of his surroundings, that his mother was _different_ than anyone else. different than his father, different than him, different than the world surrounding her. not only she _looked_ different, but the way she acted was different too, her magic, as well. it was almost like blaise could taste it in his mouth, and saw colours around her, so vibrant and strong.

she possessed knowledge of things lost, traditions rooted in the small towns of europe before things like hogwarts or the ministry of magic were even created. knowledge that passed from generation to generation, whispered between hearths, that never made it to books, or subjects.

his father, a dignified pureblood wizard from an elite family, had nothing to do with it, and while he tried to raise blaise in the way he would fit best the high end society that he was born with, his mother would whisper to him in italian about tales and traditions and secrets her own mother would have whispered to her when she was blaise's age.

and blaise listened and learned, italian becoming a secret language between his mother and him, used for learning the things he would never learn at school, for the advices she didn't want his father to hear, for the gossips she, and he, learned to cherish.

and also, blaise learned how _to know_ and not _to say_ , how the strongest move was sometimes, not let people _see_ what you had, and what your knowledge was, was simply to wait until it was the best moment to voice it out, or _use_ it.

 

**1987.  
** the  _first_ , and  _only_ time, blaise saw his mother crying was at the funeral of his father.

despite the rumours, unfounded ones at the most cases, his father didn't die because of his mother's hand, he died because of a mission that went wrong leaded by the ministry in coalition with the durmstrang institute. something about dark magic, blaise never asked, and if his mother knew, she didn't tell him.

she just cried.

and blaise, had attended too many funerals after his father's one, he never saw his mother crying as she did that day, her face, usually so beautiful and composed, distorted in the pain and the sorrow of losing him, her magic, always so strong and warm, coming to blaise in strong waves, was faltering and wavering like the fickle of a candle.

from all the things that blaise wished people could understand was the immeasurable love her mother had for his father, and that her mother had for him, and all the strength she displayed after his absence. and her strategies of surviving, too.

 

** 1989. **   
his mother got remarried to a disgusting old man that never said blaise's name correctly, and always laughed after he or his mother would correct him. he was loud and fat and his breathing always stink, he liked to smoke and drink firewhiskey and talk to his mother in a way that it made boil all the blood running down his veins.

he simply hated him, and he had the feeling his mother didn't even like him that much. it took a  _few_ years for blaise to understand why his mother kept remarrying such disgusting, old and rude old men, to understand how a strong woman like she was, in the society they lived in, needed something else to hold onto.

“ _caro_ , mama loves you so much, you know that? mama will do anything for you.”

and blaise, endeared by the nickname, would smile with a nod, leaning forward to press a kiss to her mother's cheek when she demanded one.

(barely a year after she married, her husband was found dead after his sleep. blaise, as bad as it sounded, was happy to hear about that, and when he looked at her mother, he  _knew_ , he didn't know how, but he did, maybe it was in the way her eyes sparkled or she moved, or maybe because she didn't cry at his funeral like he did at his father's. 

_'acqua in bocca'_ his mother would whisper to him, and blaise would nod ' _keep it to yourself'_ )

 

 **1990.**  
his mother, even with an army of house elves around her, never trusted anyone in cooking her meals, she didn't even use magic, and blaise remembered fondly to see her with a long knife in her hand, chopping and cutting and smashing and peeling, her italian strong and melodic as she spoke to him.

“kitchens are the hearts of places, blaise.” she would say, as she dropped swirls of basil, parsley and oregano in a boiling pot of water, in such an enthralling way blaise thought she was preparing a potion, or casing a spell. “the warmest, the busiest, the one concentrating all the scents, all the _life_.”

the noise she made while cutting mushrooms would never leave blaise's mind, a strong, curtly sound, of a metallic blade against a wood surface, with such speed and precision you would miss it if you blinked. “and your father always thought i was degrading our position for stepping here, and cook.” she laughed, but blaise could feel the bitterness in her mouth, he almost could taste it, as it her mouth was filled with bile and blaise could feel it too. “but he never understood.”

“sometimes, you need to _feel_ things in your hands, blaise.” she said, looking up at her child with sparkly eyes, braided long hair falling over her shoulders. “feeling it's warmth, it's weight, to feel it's real and tangible, and not something fleeting, untrustworthy. when you're close enough to something, or someone, close enough for touching it, the more you can read to it, the more you can _see_ if it's going to betray you, you understand?”

blaise would look up at her, her long knife in her hand, and he would just shake his head. and his mother would laugh loudly, patting his hand with her clean one. “one day you will.”

 

** 1991. **   
waiting with his mother in the platform nine and three-quarters, blaise felt for the  _very_ first time the weight of the stares and the rumours, and once again, he felt the strength of her mother, her capacity to be over any kind of comment, or stare, or disdain against her.

the admiration he felt towards her grew up as each year passed by, as it did how close they became, they had no other but themselves, and one of the things his mother taught him was to be careful about where to put his trust, not to give it away easily. “your trust is  _even_ more important than your heart.” his mother would tell him once, her hand on his chest. “protect this, before giving it away, ask yourself if it's worthy, if you can give your trust to someone, if that someone would  _give_ their trust to you, you understand?” and that time, blaise nodded. 

 

** 1993. **   
his mother always wrote to him once a week, long and detailed letters in italian describing what she was doing, asking about his classmates and his lessons, wanting to know about his life in hogwarts. she never talked about her new husbands, and blaise knew it was a way to spare him, because they both know how the story was going to end anyway.

he wrote about his life at hogwarts, about quidditch, about the subjects he liked and despised, about annoying classmates, about the blokes he shared his bedroom with  _'nott is quiet as a mouse, but he has nightmares by night'._ he also told him about a fight he had with cassius warrington, a corpulent student a few years older than him, because he laughed about his mother and all the  _accidental_ deaths around her.

when she replied to him, she said she wasn't proud about him getting into fights, but that she was glad that warrington ended up with a broken nose.

she always signed the letters in the same way.   
_'cucciolo, ti penso sempre.'_

 

** 1995. **   
his mother married two times in the same year, and blaise though it was a stupid move, even for her. she always told him not to worry, and along with the letters she would send to hogwarts via his owl, she would also send new clothes she would buy in her trips to paris or milan, magazines, books and the newest and most expensive broom she could find, when blaise told her he wanted to give it a try at the slytherin quidditch team.

she would take care of him in the best way she could, using the ways she had, blaise knew all about that, and he loved her for it. she missed her sassy italian when she was talking about a party she had to attend, about the people  _talking about her_ when she knew she wasn't noticing, even if she did.

“take whatever people use to try to hurt you as your best armour, caro.” one of her letters said, and blaise read it lying on his bed, his wand illuminating her neat handwriting. “always raise above the comments, with a high head. let people babble like idiots, because the most important thing is that only you are the possessor of your own truth, you and the people you trust the most. you understand?”

and blaise nodded, even if she couldn't see him, folding the letter underneath his pillow.

 

** 1997. **   
it was during a christmas break, of the calm before the storm, that blaise zabini found himself in the middle of his kitchen, his mother cutting, and slicing and smashing and peeling, while shouting orders to the house elves, that it almost seemed like time had passed by, even if it did.

blaise was much taller than her now, her braided head brushing his shoulders, and she had aged a little, rivulets of silver adorning her hair, but she was still as beautiful as blaise remembered her, as chatty, as positive, as strong.

“that poor kid, the one with the nightmares, talk to me about him.” she demanded, not questioned, not even looking up from the pot she was stirring in front of her, and blaise's eyes narrowed, trying to dodge her intentions, but he couldn't read anything.

so blaise talked about nott, about his nightmares, about his ability to see thestrals, about how he was brilliant but quiet as a mouse, about his screams piercing the night when he slept next to him in the dorms, about how he was scared of flying, about how they are together in potions and he was smart and efficient, about his pale skin and light eyes.

when he looked up again, her mother was smiling. “tesoro, do you trust him.” and blaise shrugged, before giving a tentative nod, so his mother talked again. “and does he trust you.”

and that time, blaise remembered theo's hands clinging to the sleeping draught he had made to him, soaking in the feeling of the weight and the warmth of his hands, that sensation of closeness, his eyes as he understood the luxury of a dreamless sleep and he gave a firm nod, that made his mother smile, but she said nothing more, giving a few pats to his cheek.

 

 **1998.**  
his mother didn't pledge to anyone, she stayed neutral during the war, during the raising of lord voldemort. she was _mourning_ her seventh husband, and at the same time, she was using all the resources she had, to make sure blaise was safe.

she left to italy, to her own family manor in sicily as soon as she knew the war was exploding around, that muggles were being hunted, that _people_ were disappearing every day. and she wrote to blaise daily, her heart thrumming against her chest every time the owl would return to her, she always pleaded him to come back, to spend time with her in italy, to not to get involved, and not fight.

and blaise stayed as neutral as he could, he had nothing to do with the death eater business, and being pureblood gave him room enough for being more or less safer when hogwarts was taken by the carrows. days were long and silent, and there was this feeling of danger _everywhere_ , even for slytherin students. but blaise knew he could make it one day at a time, focusing on that, surviving, relying on everything his mother had taught him about raising himself over the waters and testing the other's trust on him.

the battle was spent locked away in the dungeons, the body of a shivering, cold theodore nott pressed against him, and the warm hand of pansy parkinson holding tightly into him. it could have been seconds, or hours, or days... before the three of them ran away, until they were far away from the aftermath and the hogwarts castle to feel safe. theo was crying and pansy was holding back her own tears when they said goodbye, they all knew they had places to be, things they had to sort out before seeing each other again.

blaise zabini apparated to his mother's manor in italy, collapsing in exhaustion when he did.

 

 _ **1998.**_  
blaise didn't know for how long he had been asleep, but he felt it had been too long, because the sun was high in the sky, shinning through the curtains in his room. italy was so warm, and so bright, being there was the final understanding of how his mother was, how the energy seemed to pour through her like the light was infiltrating into his room.

his feet felt heavy as he made his way to the kitchen, to the familiar sound of cutting, peeling, smashing and slicing, and the strong, but fruity aroma of fresh made coffee. his mother smiled at him when he stepped inside, her petite figure taking him in a long, warm and strong embrace.

they both knew they had to talk about a million things, everything blaise saw, everything blaise didn't dare to say, the tongues of fire haunting him in the corner of his mind, but he also knew that they had all the time in the world to catch up, and he also knew what his mother was going to say before she did.

“you need food to live.” a mug of steaming coffee and a plate of bread and tomatoes and olive oil shining like gold was put in front of blaise whose stomach grumbled in hunger, and looked up to smile at her. “eat now, and talk later.”

and blaise smiled again, as she pressed a kiss to his temple, sitting down in front of him to enjoy the same mug of steaming coffee, and the same plate of food.

 

**Author's Note:**

> come say hi to me at [tumblr](http://crvdence.tumblr.com/)


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